It's the ‘superglue’ of any party

The cake to beat all birthday cakes was the Hansel and Gretel house when I turned eight. There’s a fuzzy photo of it somewhere: me, my friends and honestly, the most fantastical, edible centrepiece on the planet.

To this day, I have no idea how my mom did it. There was a roof, windows, walls; heck, she’d even made little trees and flowery things (one for each child) and it was so real that I fully expected a wicked witch to throw open the sponge-slice door and take a swipe at me for eating her property.

The anchor, the cherry on top, that which draws the oohs and aahs – cakes are the superglue of a good party, be it a birthday, wedding (divorce cakes feature nowadays too, supposedly), bar mitzvah or 21st – especially if you’re turning 21 for the 10th time.

But, really, it’s children’s birthday cakes that have sprung a whole sub-culture – the desperate determination to “Do It Yourself” – much like husbands promise to do around the house, but don’t.

I’ve never made a cake for my kids and probably never will.

But, every year, I say I’m going to, even though I can’t bake, let alone mix icing without putting in too much water and slipping in the puddles on the floor after flinging the stupid stuff around, because I can’t ever get it right. How difficult can it be? Very, if you’re me.

Looking back, most people I know can remember their cakes but not much about their parties.

My husband, for example, still has total recall of his guitar cake, while my mate from primary school had one of those doll cakes – with a big round of icing as the dress – and says she’s making one when her daughter turns four.

I know, for a fact, that my friend Shona’s children are going to have blazingly brilliant memories of their mother’s frankly genius creations. And Osnat’s boys, who’ve had everything from cars to football pitches.

Perhaps it’s a rite of passage: the gathering around a focal point, the candles, the off-key singing and celebrating.

A cake is like – well, it’s the icing on the cake at any occasion and whether we’re into puddings or not, everybody wants a piece of the attraction.

Cakes stop us growing up and remind us that it’s fun to be the centre of attention once a year.

I know this to be true, since my husband’s most coveted fantasy cake – a pair of breasts, all anatomically correct and accounted for – left him and his boys speechless when Osnat actually baked and materialised it for his birthday two years ago.

He had his cake and he ate it too. So did the kids, although, thankfully, they believed the lie that it was two pink sand dunes – with a cherry a-top of each.